


Parasite

by ninayoshi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Based loosely on Bite (2015), Body Horror, Bugs & Insects, Changing POVs, Egg Laying, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Impregnation, M/M, Oviposition, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Somnophilia, Weird Biology, and copious amount of egg laying, but now he is a cannibalistic insect thing, egg shitting?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 11:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21493543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninayoshi/pseuds/ninayoshi
Summary: Hannibal has been missing for a week.—Self-indulgent fic filled with weird analogies about God as Will is filled with insect eggs. Fun!
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 150





	Parasite

**Author's Note:**

> Switching POVs is something I never thought I do, but here I am. It just sort of comes naturally.  
Also I was watching Bite (2015) it’s a weird film but I like the whole COVER EVERYTHING WITH INSECT EGGS vibe so here’s more eggs. I call it egg shitting.

It starts with tremors. Awful, bone-rattling, constant tremors. You can’t control the muscle spasms, and the way your body tries to literally shake itself to death until you could hear your teeth shake out of your skull. But it is a relief compared to the flashes of heat and cold coming in waves in the second stage of the infection. You sweat, you don’t; you tear sweat-soaked shirts off your back, you yearn all the clothing you own to be put back. Alive; dead. Flipping like switches, determined randomly by God’s amusement.

Your skin peels away. Your nails drop. Food taste like shit; shit tastes like food. Your world spins, turns, tumbles, and rights itself upside down. Your mind tethers on a precarious point like an inverted pyramid. Nothing feels real, yet everything is surreal in the most beautiful vibrancy of a technicolour dream.

You learn to climb walls- you think you are, but you barely twitch. The world doesn’t make sense anymore, except- except.

Your remaining three claws clasp around your swollen abdomen. Brimming with life.

Your children.

The only thing that matters. The only thing that makes sense in this weird world.

It’s bliss. Its torture.

If he wants a child in his life, you will gladly give all of this to him.

—

For whatever reason, Hannibal has not taken up any appointments in a week. No one had any contact with him, and his house was locked up, like he had skipped out of town randomly. Will finds it strange, but not particularly worried. After all, he is an adult and is held accountable to no one.

Until now.

Will demands Hannibal’s time and that man had been accommodating. Now he disappears, and Will is left scrambling for whatever pieces of unfortunate event that may befell Doctor Lecter.

In the dead of night he pulls up to his residence, a quiet, imposing building with enough distance and shrubbery for privacy. Safely tucked away, which meant safely hidden from view. If Hannibal had screamed, would his neighbours come a-running, or will their blasé attitude towards anything that isn’t them win out in the end?

No, the good doctor should be alright.

With his leather gloves and some tools he unlocked the door with ease. He knows Hannibal isn’t a guy who is big on security; somehow petty burglars are wary of a house that is too neat. A sleeping lion with claws sheathed will always be a threat.

He opens the door with a silent click, and an awful scent of mildew, rot, and something vulgar assaulted his senses. He stumbles back, the wave of nausea accompanying the stench that made him vomit a little in his mouth and his eyes water.

What happened here? This is highly unusual for someone who holds order to a high regard.

Unless- No. No, he was sure Hannibal _ couldn’t _have. Not like this.

Could he?

Even then, the godawful smell is not the putrid rot of a decomposing body. It smells like black mold and dead bugs on a windscreen wiper.

Will could only tuck his nose in the crook of his elbow, hesitating to close the door before deciding that he should spare the neighbourhood the wretched mess he has stumbled upon. He pulls out a flashlight, and the sight made him gag.

The walls were covered in black mold mixed with what he could describe as grimy brown treacle-like slime, creeping slowly down the vertical surface it clings onto. It drips, all the way from the ceiling, and covers nearly every square inch of the once beautiful house.

There are webs of skin-like materials hanging like tresses, over the crystal chandeliers and paintings, and over countertops and tables. He doesn’t know what those are. He doesn’t want to know.

The floor is slimy with whatever biohazardous mess this is. Upon closer inspection, and to his own horror, the slime is actually made out of jelly-like balls that is reminiscent of fish roe.

Eggs? Was there an infestation that invaded Hannibal’s house, and yet somehow no one knew? The entire situation was bizarre, but the more Will ventures, the more intense his worries.

He tries his best to avoid puddles, sidestepping wherever possible, when he had stepped into something far worse. What he thought was a part of the floor gave way to a hole, and the hole crumbles away into the darkness beneath.

Will flails, dropping his flashlight. He can’t find his balance, taking a gasp of horrid air as he tries to reach for either side of the hole, but it seemed to expand as the floor disintegrates and falls alongside him.

As his flashlight spins wildly, he sees brief flashes of huge knots of those skin webs, and clinging right underneath the remnants of the hole is a ghoulishly emaciated Hannibal Lecter. Something is wrong, his body looks-

And a big, fat cut to black.

—

There he is. How you tremble in delight. You see him fall right side up. Or wrong side down. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter when a **HOST** has fallen down into your lovely nest, all ripe for the taking.

He lands on the squishy piles of eggs you had been laying, and you instinctively screamed. Your children, yours and **HIS**, and he had been so clumsy. You hear the shattering of mirrors and glass. The destruction pales in comparison to how Will has landed on your children.

No matter. You can lay more. You pet your swelling body with glee, cock jutting up and up, until it looks more like a stinger than the flesh it once were. You stroke it, allowing clear precum to leak copiously from the tip, and dripping all over the unconscious man’s mouth. Will would be an excellent host. He will bear your children. He will be perfect.

Instinct drives you. Instinct wants you to wrap Will quickly with the web that comes out from your mouth. Safe, warm, nourishing body. A haven for your eggs. You are swelling with them, constantly, an ache in your belly as your ass leaks them everywhere. It isn’t uncomfortable; rather, it makes you unbearably, irrevocably horny. Every clutch of eggs are being tended to with your cum, although in your fever-addled state you don’t really know whether this would work, delirious with the need to feed and fuck.

You think you had been eating the runts of the litter too. Or something. It doesn’t taste like much. Nothing tastes like much.

But oh, Will, he smells divine. So clean. Fresh, warm, delicious body. You hover over him, and then under him, round and round, spinning your web as he is suspended in the middle of the room. Like an angel fallen into the pit of hell, headlong into the fray, banished by God.

_ Are you so unloved by Him _ , you wanted to ask, your spindly fingers caressing his cheeks, _ that you are brought low, or is it that He wants you to seek me as solace _? Religion is madness and you think your own mind is on fire, like how Will once was. You’d like to think you are the God of this domain. Nothing that exists in this space feels as good as his presence with yours.

Will is your God. You reconcile with that fact, and to worship him is to breed him full with Adams and Eves. Your jaws try to communicate that fact, but there are too many teeth and mandibles. 

There is just enough space for your cock to squirm through the webs. With one sharp jut of your hips you moan, piercing through Will’s pants with ease as you slip your cock between his asscheeks, right into Will himself. Your cock squirms in delight at the warmth, your body light up with hungry desire to plant as many of your offsprings as possible into your prey- your God.

There isn’t any distinction here; the prospect of eating God is far too amusing. But alas you need to reign in that instinct to bite and eat; Will is precious cargo. Will is precious. Will.

You see his eyelashes flutter, brows furrowed in confusion. Immediately you shush him, and make word noises from your too-complicated mouth as the implantation begins. It comes in waves, and so is the pleasure. Both of you groan at the transferring pressure as it ebbs and flows, from you to him. It feels so good, and you rocked your hips forward. You think you hear him cry out. Pain, pleasure, it all sounds the same to you.

You fuck harder. You smell copper. He is louder now, lucid and aware and muttering a name you forgotten. The more awake he is the more frightened he seems to be, but his eyes never left you. You roll your hips, knowing your cock has worked its way deeper. Far too deep, but it feels so good. Will’s eyes flutter shut, head dropping back. Acceptance.

He accepts your offering, and you attached your secondary jaw onto his mouth. You don’t even know how your body works anymore. It’s wrong but instincts says this is **RIGHT** and Will needs to be filled. Swelling with all this… Life in him. Vibrant little parasites.

Will only utter a surprised moan and you feel yourself regurgitating something. A slush of eggs and liquids. You see his throat undulate to accommodate so much. He is so good to you. He feels so good. He needs more. He needs-

Nothing feels as good anymore when Will is here.

—

Will stirs again. He is restrained, still. His ass and throat were sore, but the sensation isn’t wholly uncomfortable. He licks his lips and swallow, the taste bringing back the memories of things sliding into him, filling him up with pleasure. He eyes Hannibal’s unnatural body circling above him, clinging onto the ceiling as his eyes, all eight of them, stares uncannily at him. There is hunger, there is desire, but there is also a strange form of love.

Paternal love, he would think, knowing that now his body is swelling with Hannibal’s eggs. The entire situation should have broken him out of this hazy reverie. He should panic now, he thinks, as he meets Hannibal’s gaze.

The monster smiles, and Will smiles back.


End file.
